When Sheila was in a bad mood, she berated her new foster daughter for streaks on the windows, dust on the figurines, for crooked bed sheet corners, and floors that had not been waxed properly. Even her debt to him was a triviality now. The way it had happened was stupid, absurd. Then she stood up and looked around the room. Have we not received Lady Bicknacre just this morning? Not to mention the Comtesse de St Erme. This Joan would hold them for a little.
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